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She flew the remaining length of the corridor and down the stairs, slowing only as she rounded the curve.

She paused there to catch her breath. Willing her pulse to slow, she took hold of the banister and descended the remaining steps at a stately pace.

Mr. St. Leger was waiting for her just inside the ballroom. He raised his quizzing glass. “You look pale, my dear.”

“I . . . I need some air . . . that is all.” Her hand at her throat, she looked around for somewhere to flee.

“Come, I know just the place.” Snagging a glass from a passing waiter, he held out his arm to her.

She let him lead her, not caring where they went as long as she needn’t face anyone. He took her down the stairs to the ground floor. They entered a drawing room at the back of the mansion and exited the French doors. Finally, blessed darkness and cool night air met her cheeks. She drew in gulps of it.

Mr. St. Leger guided her across the stone terrace and down some shallow steps. She stumbled once and his hold tightened. “Careful there,” he said.

They stopped in an area shadowed by high-clipped yews from the lights of the ballroom and the torches set on the terrace.

He put the glass in her hand, and she took it in both of hers with a murmured thank-you before taking a large swallow. She sputtered, realizing it was champagne.

“Easy does it.”

Flushing in consternation, she drank the rest more slowly.

After a moment, he said, “Feeling better?”

“Yes, much, thank you.” She lowered the empty glass from her lips, not caring how sick it made her as long as it helped her obliterate the words she’d overheard. He took it from her and set it on the ground. She had a sudden urge to giggle, thinking about the servants having to search high and low tomorrow for all the missing crystal.

“I am relieved you are beginning to find something humorous again.”

She glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “You may thank the champagne. It has made me realize I mustn’t take things too seriously, least of all myself.” Poor, pathetic little creature she must appear to the likes of a former countess. The thought brought another laugh. The champagne made her feel like two people,
one acting and one observing. Was this what was meant by light-headed? She laughed again, hard-pressed to stop.

Mr. St. Leger brushed back a wayward curl from her cheek.

Her breath caught at his featherlight touch. His dark head and shoulders, his face in shadow, could have been Rees’s. Was this what it would have been like if he’d never met Céline?

“You have skin as soft as a kitten’s fur,” he purred like the kitten he was describing, the back of his fingertips stroking her skin in a rhythmic motion. She found herself spellbound, unable to move even if she had wished to.

But she didn’t wish to. Spurned and forgotten by the man who’d held her heart for so many years, and now worse—mocked by the woman who had stolen his heart—Jessamine was willing for anything to blot out those two people. Here stood a man who found her beautiful and desirable.

Rees’s words echoed in her mind.
“There was never any passion in me for
her. Unlike you, who drove me insane the first time
I saw you.”

Her breast rose and fell in hypnotic cadence with St. Leger’s touch.

“Do you like that?”

“Mm,” was all she could manage.

His fingers moved downward to her jaw, cupping it and drawing her closer.

She stood transfixed, never having experienced a man’s touch like this. Rees had only ever briefly taken her hand. Her body wanted to sway toward St. Leger’s warm touch. She didn’t know whether it was the effects of the champagne or her own desire to be held.

A distant alarm sounded in the recesses of her mind, but it was too far away to heed.

With an impatient sigh, Lancelot put his spectacles back on, needing to see more clearly since he’d been unable to spot Miss
Barry by the color of her dress alone—a dress cut scandalously low and of a deep amber usually reserved for married ladies.

His concern had deepened ever since Mr. Phillips approached them. Lancelot had observed the conversation between him and Miss Barry. He’d sensed an undercurrent between the two from the moment Miss Barry opened her mouth. The longer he stood there, the greater his conviction grew. When Mr. Phillips asked her to dance, it struck Lancelot then by the look in Miss Barry’s eyes. She was in love with him.

He wondered if the feeling was returned but could detect nothing more than brotherly affection in Mr. Phillips’s look and tone.

With his spectacles on, Lancelot watched them dance, and his fears were confirmed. Though there was nothing unusual in Mr. Phillips’s conduct, Miss Barry stared up at him as if he were the only man in the room. Perhaps Lancelot was imagining it or perhaps he would have noticed nothing if he hadn’t been observing her so closely, but now it was as if blinders had been taken from his eyes and he saw the abject longing in her gaze.

It brought a strange sensation to his chest, as of losing something he’d never had. Lancelot frowned, unable to tear his gaze away. Mr. Phillips was quite a bit older than Miss Barry, he judged, over thirty, though a handsome and distinguished-looking gentleman, to her twenty or one-and-twenty. She was young enough to look up to him in admiration, Lancelot thought in growing misery.

As they danced up and down the line of dancers, promenading or holding hands, the constriction in his chest grew.

He snatched off his spectacles, tucking them back into his case, just as the dance drew to a close, even as he chided himself for his vanity.

His questions to her after the dance drew little from her. It was clear she was keeping her feelings hidden, but she hadn’t been able to mask her longing as she’d watched Mr. Phillips return to his wife.

Before Lancelot could do anything to console her, Mr. St. Leger had come to snatch her away.

Lancelot left the ballroom, disgusted with himself for wanting something—someone—clearly not meant for him.

But now as the supper hour drew near, he found himself once more searching for Miss Barry.

His concern mounted when he didn’t see her anywhere. Nor did he see Mr. St. Leger. Had she been indisposed once more?

He put his spectacles back on, not caring who saw him. Harold had left ages ago, probably to some gaming den, having told Lancelot he was on his own.

“I’ve taken you about like a child on leading strings. It’s past time you stood on your own two feet.” He laughed derisively at his pun. “Make love to any one of those frippery young misses who are hanging out for a husband. The second son of a baronet is nothing to sniff at. You’ll make Mama and Papa happy.” Harold’s lips twisted in a smirk. “We are all depending on you to carry on the family line. Perhaps Rosamunde and I can adopt your firstborn if it’s a boy.”

The thought left Lancelot cold. Although the remark was uttered in jest, now that it had been voiced aloud, he had no doubt between his brother and his wife and his parents, they would not hesitate to set such a plan in motion. It was done all the time—a wealthier relative taking a poorer one’s offspring to bring up and educate, especially when the former was childless as Harold and Rosamunde were.

The thought flitted through his mind: what would Miss Barry think if she knew she had to give up her firstborn?

He pushed the nonsensical thought from his mind and continued to look for her.

By the time he had searched every floor, he wondered whether Miss Barry could have gone outside. With Mr. St. Leger? The thought brought him to a stop, worry bringing a constriction to his chest. St. Leger had an unsavory reputation.

Determination edged with desperation filled him as he headed for the ground floor.

The back of the house led to the service stairs. But an opened door revealed a drawing room facing the rear. He was not the only person seeking the outdoors. He followed a couple who headed to the terrace through a pair of French doors.

Once he stood outside, Lancelot paused a moment, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. With the light from the torches as well as that spilling from all the windows above, he made out several people milling about the formal gardens. He walked down the steps, his eyes scanning the area.

He discerned a couple half hidden behind a yew hedge. The gown was the amber shade of Miss Barry’s, and the man was certainly tall enough to be St. Leger.

He hurried across the garden, his alarm and anger growing as he saw how closely the man stood by her. By the time Lancelot drew near, the man had bent his head as if he were on the verge of kissing her.

Lancelot took a step forward and cleared his throat. “Miss Barry?”

She jumped away as if he’d shouted at her. St. Leger straightened more slowly and finally turned an eye toward Lancelot. “Marfleet? What the deuce are you doing, startling the lady like this?”

“I should say rather what are you doing bringing the young lady to such a secluded spot?” Lancelot answered shortly.

St. Leger evinced no contrition. “The lady felt the need of some air. I was merely obliging her.”

Lancelot ground his teeth at the faint mockery in his tone. He forced his attention to Miss Barry. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am fine now.”

“May I escort you back inside?”

She looked from one to the other, as if unsure what to say.

Lancelot took another step forward, offering his arm. “May I? Supper is being served.”

St. Leger stepped back with a flourish. “By all means, Sir Lancelot, do escort the lady to her supper.”

Ignoring the nickname he’d endured since his public school days, when he’d stuck up for the younger and weaker, Lancelot tucked Miss Barry’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her from the secluded spot. St. Leger’s low laughter followed them.

He said nothing until they were both in the drawing room. Thankful that no one was in the room, he disengaged himself from her. “It was not prudent to go with Mr. St. Leger outside.”

She stepped away from him, her green eyes snapping. “It is not your concern, Mr. Marfleet. Were you following me again?”

“I was worried when I didn’t see you or St. Leger anywhere.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with maligning someone’s character. “He has a certain reputation.”

“I’ll thank you to stay out of my business. Do you think you have an interest in my affairs because you—you rescued my belongings?” She clutched at her necklace. Suddenly she reached behind her and began to unclasp it. “If that is the case, you can have it back until I can redeem it myself!”

“I don’t want it back!” Seeing she continued to struggle with the clasp, he was forced to take her forearms and bring them down to her sides.

She glared up at him, her breathing hard, her green eyes shooting sparks at him.

He forgot all those things in the feel of her, her proximity reminding him of their waltz. This was a hundred times worse, his chest almost touching hers, his hands grasping her wrists.

With effort he let her go and stepped away, his own breathing uneven. “Keep your necklace. It has nothing to do with my concern.” His glance descended from her face. “If you persist in dressing like a Cyprian and going off with men like St. Leger, you’ll need more than me watching over you.”

She sucked in her breath. The next second her hand came up,
and he received a resounding slap across the cheek. He stepped back from the shock, his hand going to his stinging cheek.

They stared at one another. She seemed as shocked as he by her action.

“If you will excuse me,” she said in shaky tones and turned on her heel, leaving him nursing his cheek.

As frustrated and angry with himself as with her, he wished he could smash something. Before he could do anything, the door from the terrace opened and St. Leger entered.

Seeing Lancelot alone, he lifted a black eyebrow. “The lady didn’t appreciate your role of knight errant, I presume?”

“You were taking advantage of a well-brought-up young lady.”

St. Leger leaned against the glass panes of the door and examined his fingernails. “The lady is old enough to know what she wants.”

“That is unworthy of you.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “I realize you are suffering a bout of jealousy and perhaps covetousness, which you must control,
Reverend
Marfleet, but I insist, the lady was in no danger. I could hardly ravish her in so public a place.”

“And if the next place is not so public?”

St. Leger shrugged a shoulder. “I cannot answer for hypotheticals.” With a small salute, he straightened and walked toward the door opposite. “If you will excuse me, I must go in to supper. I find my appetite is unsatisfied . . .”

Jessamine reentered the ballroom, not knowing what she should do. She felt humiliated twice over. The conversation between Céline and Rees was bad enough but to be found by Mr. Marfleet and then pulled away as if she were a child!

Her face burned, wondering if Mr. St. Leger would have kissed her if they hadn’t been interrupted. What would she have done? She didn’t know.

Putting her quizzing glass up to her eye, she scanned the ballroom, searching to see if Rees or Céline were anywhere, and felt relieved when she didn’t see them. In truth, most people had left the ballroom to go in to supper.

“Are you ready to face the hordes at the supper table?”

She jumped at the sound at her shoulder then turned in relief, recognizing Mr. St. Leger’s voice. “Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t mind some refreshment.”

He eyed her with amusement. “Refreshment it will be.”

He led her to the supper room, and she resisted the urge to look back to see if Mr. Marfleet had followed her. She would not let him dictate her behavior. And she would show Rees that she was well over her childhood dreams.

By the time she left the ball that evening, she had agreed to another ride with Mr. St. Leger the following day.

Lancelot spent the morning closeted in his room, staring at his botanical notes. He had a stack of watercolors Delawney had completed, and he needed to compile the descriptions that went with each one.